


To the Future

by WildwoodQueen



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Modern Era, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25552975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildwoodQueen/pseuds/WildwoodQueen
Summary: King Arthur lies asleep as he and his knights await the country's hour of greatest need. Meanwhile, the other characters live out their days in the modern era as they wait for the once and future king to return. This story follows Guinevere, Morgana, Mordred, and others, as they come to terms with the past and seek out ways to take the future into their own hands.
Relationships: Gawain/Dame Ragnelle, Guinevere/Lancelot du Lac, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. The Problem with Motorbikes

Somewhere, there is a green hill. It is said that in this hill lie King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. They are not dead, merely asleep. Arthur sits on his throne. His eyes are closed. He has not aged a day since he died at Camlann. Excalibur lies glinting in his hand. All around, his knights sit waiting — Sir Kay and Sir Gawain, Sir Dinadan and Sir Palomides, and the rest. They too, sleep. Their chests rise and fall, these are the even breaths of those who are at peace. Everything is as it was. 

Legend has it that he will return, Britain’s once and future king. In the hour of his country’s greatest need, he shall return. His knights shall rise with him, grip with swords in their hands, ready to do battle once more.

But for now, all is quiet. 

And somewhere, nearby, there is a town. Of course there is. The others need somewhere to wait.

***

They had, all of them, stopped ageing after Camlann. It had always surprised Guinevere how much Morgana seemed to this in her stride. “You see,” Morgana had said, “Whenever some salesperson tells you to buy this or that anti-ageing cream, you can say to them ‘Child, I am centuries old. Don’t I look good enough already?’ and then stand back and watch them squirm. It’s hilarious.”

For Guinevere, however, the difficulties of immortality combined with her naturally shy nature meant making new friends was a torturous struggle. It was especially hard now that mobile phones were ubiquitous. They provided too much photographic evidence. As a result, Guinevere had long since decided that meeting new people was more trouble than it was worth. That said, it was always nice to talk to old friends, if only because they never questioned why you weren’t getting any older. So when Ragnelle called her to ask to meet at a restaurant for dinner, she accepted immediately. 

The meal began in an unremarkable fashion. Ragnelle chatted about her trip to Paris and how that had been. Guinevere listened patiently. While Ragnelle was a seasoned traveller, Guinevere most decidedly was not. For as long as she could remember, she had not left the town. She could not bear it. It was as if there was an invisible thread connecting her to the place. No, she would never leave, not until… No, no use thinking about that. 

The conversation shifted to other topics — the weather, various TV shows that they both watched — until Guinevere inquired after the fate of Ragnelle’s motorbike. 

“Why ever did you sell your motorbike?” asked Guinevere as she drew her knife through her lasagne. “It seems a shame to sell it when you hadn’t even owned it for very long.”

Ragnelle had always been unconventional, always testing the limits of propriety. She had thrown herself into the Suffragette movement when it had come round. She had worn every scandalous fashion that she could, not because she liked the way it looked but simply because she could. She was also the first of them to learn how to drive. Still, her motorbike phase had come and gone terribly quickly. 

Ragnelle was quiet for a while, and appeared to be considering her answer. “I was thinking about the journey,” she said, twirling spaghetti around her fork. 

“What are you talking about?” asked Guinevere. 

“To get to town…” Ragnelle waved her hand with a carelessness that was obviously feigned, “From the… the hill… when they wake up.”

“Ah.” Of course, this was about _Gawain_. 

“Picture this scene,” said Ragnelle, and she took another sip of wine. “You’ve just woken up after centuries of sleep. Mornings are always unpleasant, but this is doubly so because it’s not just dawn, it’s the dawn of a new age, and all that jazz. Very unsettling.”

“Very,” nodded Guinevere. 

“Then I come up to you and tell you to get on this deadly-looking contraption. ‘Hop on!’ I call cheerily. What would your reaction be?”

“I would run away as fast as I could,” said Guinevere, remembering the old days — everywhere you couldn’t go on foot you would go on horseback. She sighed. It had been years since she’d gone riding. 

“He’s never been on a motorbike before, doesn’t even know what it is,” said Ragnelle quietly, eyes distant. “It would be a dreadful start. With a car, on the other hand, I could drive him, really slowly of course, back to my flat. I’ll make him some apple pie, then I’ll show him how to use all the appliances. It’ll be a nice first day. I’ve been practising how I’ll explain the internet to him, though I suppose I’ll have to save that until the second week at least. I don’t want things to be too overwhelming...” She spoke these last words in a rush until she ran out of breath. She stopped, exhausted.

“You seem to have planned this in a lot of detail,” said Guinevere, and she suspected her companion was beginning to get a little tipsy. 

“I have. And I’m certain I need that car journey.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it would give us time to talk. The problem with motorbikes is that they’re too noisy for conversation. I have to talk to him, have to explain…” She trailed off.

Guinevere let out a sigh as realisation dawned. “Why you had to… to leave.”

“Yes, and you needn’t sugarcoat it, Guinevere,” said Ragnelle, not looking at her. “I didn’t just leave. I left him.”

“For your sovereignty,” said Guinevere, slowly. “Was that why?”

“Yes. I loved him but I loved my freedom too. I was never meant for court life, with all its finery and fripperies. I was suffocating. Yet that doesn’t mean…”

“It doesn’t mean you loved him any less,” said Guinevere, holding her gaze. “I understand that.” _She understood it perfectly._

“Yes. I don’t even know why we’re using past tense. It’s not as if they’re dead — not really.”

There was a long silence, though the restaurant maintained its busy chatter. Ragnelle twirled and twirled her spaghetti around her fork. Guinevere adventured an awkward stab into her lasagne. The fork made an unpleasantly scraping noise against the plate. _Oh hell_ , thought Guinevere, _One ought to find a better way to break the silence than this._

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said, and she took a big gulp of wine. “It’s going to be very awkward for me.”

“Oh… oh yes,” muttered Ragnelle and bit her lip. Guinevere imagined thoughts of Arthur, Lancelot and herself racing through her friend’s mind. “Out of curiosity,” Ragnelle began, in a tone that indicated her question was fuelled by more than pure curiosity. “Have you heard from Lancelot?”

“No,” said Guinevere quickly. She stabbed into her lasagne, not caring that she made a noise so loud that people at nearby tables turned to glare at her. _Bloody lasagne. Bloody overcooked lasagne. ___

__“Oh,” said Ragnelle. She said nothing for a while. Guinevere began to plan a change of subject. Hopefully, she could salvage the conversation before it went too far._ _

__Ragnelle then proceeded to dash her hopes. “Because I really believe if you just called him —”_ _

__“No,” snapped Guinevere. “I won’t. Drop the subject, Ragnelle. I won’t hear it.”_ _

__It had not exactly come as a surprise that Lancelot had been excluded from the knights who accompanied Arthur in his sleep. Lancelot himself had taken this as evidence that he was unworthy. Guinevere, of course, disagreed. Even now, even after all the sorrow, the tears, and the blood — she still knew that deep down in her bones, that to her, Lancelot would always be the best knight to have ever lived. True, he had never been perfect, and toward the end, he had been so foolish. And yet, Guinevere could not let go of those memories. She held them in her mind like shattered glass. No matter how many years had passed, the memories still hurt — full of passion and pain. They still made her bleed. But of course, they had agreed they could not be together. _The Fall of Camelot must never be repeated.__ _

__“You deserve to be happy,” said Ragnelle. “You don’t need to punish yourself.”_ _

__“That’s not why — ”_ _

__“It is. You see yourself as responsible for what happened with Arthur. So you’re making yourself miserable even though this won’t bring him back. Hell, Arthur is coming back. Whatever you do, he’s going to be alright. So you ought to seize your chance. Not all of us are so lucky.”_ _

__“Don’t play that card, Ragnelle — ”_ _

__“Tough, I already did,” interrupted Ragnelle, and she folded her arms in defiance._ _

__“Ragnelle,” said Guinevere. “Just because you have a psychology degree—”_ _

__“Actually, I have three degrees —”_ _

__“Doesn’t mean you can psychoanalyse me,” finished Guinevere. “Besides, tonight you have interrupted me not once, not twice, but three times,” she added as she put on her most imperious expression, “That is no way to speak to your queen.”_ _

__Ragnelle burst out laughing. Guinevere felt the corners of her lips twitch. Soon, she too was laughing._ _

__“I think,” said Guinevere, once she had recovered. “We could use horses.”_ _

__“Horses?”_ _

__“Yes, to bring our boys home,” Guinevere closed her eyes. “Oh God, was that cheesy? I tried to make a joke and have since learnt my lesson.”_ _

__“Yes it was,” said Ragnelle and shrugged. “But the idea isn’t bad.”_ _

__“I know. Why not go back to basics? It would be less of a culture shock.” Guinevere attacked her lasagne with a new-found ferocity._ _

__“We’d have to buy up a whole herd,” Ragnelle said with a frown._ _

__“I wish I had that kind of money,” sighed Guinevere. “One of the few things I miss about being queen.”_ _

__“I hear the Bertilaks’ hotel business is going well. We could ask them,” said Ragnelle, then a thought seemed to come over her, “That said, they’d probably ask for something in return. Something nasty, no doubt.”_ _

__“Anyhow, I was thinking we could pass them off as some kind of medieval re-enactment.”_ _

__“Hm. But wouldn’t people start taking pictures of them? There ought to be a more discreet option.”_ _

__“When that happens,” said Guinevere steadily, “It will be the time of Britain’s greatest need. They’re going to have to be seen.”_ _

__“And end up on someone’s Instagram? They’ll hate that,” Ragnelle said in a huff. Then she chuckled. “Except Dinadan. He would positively revel in the attention.”_ _

__“Ah yes,” smiled Guinevere. “I remember.”_ _

__“All those brave, honourable men. They really were ridiculous, weren’t they?”_ _

__“Of course. It was practically the only prerequisite to becoming a knight of the round table,” Guinevere replied. And smiled again. As she smiled, she realised tonight was the first time she had thought about the past without feeling like she was being stabbed in the heart. The sadness was still there, of course, yet it somehow seemed less insurmountable than it had before._ _

__“I propose a toast,” said Guinevere, raising her glass._ _

__Ragnelle raised hers in response. “What for?” she asked, in a way that made Guinevere perceive that the words ‘your majesty’ lay hidden behind her casual expression. To Ragnelle and to all the others who accompanied her in this strange limbo, Guinevere would always be the once and future queen._ _

__“To the future,” said Guinevere._ _

__“To the future,” repeated Ragnelle._ _

__They drank deep._ _


	2. Welcome to Hotel Bertilak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate and broke, Mordred seeks help from an unlikely source.

During stormy nights, Mordred always dreamed of dying — clashing swords, flickers of silver metal, blood bursting free from skin, tattered bodies plummeting to the ground. As the grasping darkness drew upon him, he saw Arthur limping away, leaving a trail of crimson behind him. Arthur was going to Avalon, the place that had been denied to him. Mordred tried to scream but no sound came. He felt his dying fist clench, then become slack. 

Upon awakening, he would always wonder how it was that he, Mordred the Traitor, had been allowed to gain immortality. Knowing his luck, it was probably some kind of mistake. Perhaps some low-level bureaucrat in heaven had been tired that day: _Oops, I accidentally allowed Mordred back on Earth. Oh well, I bet no one even notices. After all, it’s only Mordred._

Mordred had always felt invisible. As a knight of the Round Table, he was unusual in that he had not won any tournaments, rescued any damsels, or achieved any kind of feat to speak of. In short, he had been a failure, the laughingstock of Camelot. Yet this all changed when he, not quite realising what he was doing, set in motion the fall of their fair citadel. 

At first, he had only intended to take Lancelot down a peg by exposing his scandalous affair with the Queen. From there, things… escalated. 

_“Are you sure this will work?” asks Agravaine as the two of them stand outside the Queen’s chamber, ears to the door._

_“Of course,” Mordred replies, then he thinks for a moment, “Well, at the very least we’ll wipe the smile off Lancelot’s smug face.”_

_Agravaine bursts out laughing. Mordred shushes him. His brother stifles another smirk but at least he has the decency to look a little admonished._

_“And we’ll become Arthur’s loyal dispensers of justice in the process,” says Agravaine, as softly as he is able._

_Seconds pass. It feels like hours. “I just can’t believe Uncle hasn’t noticed,” Mordred murmurs._

_“He’s like that. Our noble monarch. Too focused on jousting and battles and honour that he doesn’t see the big picture. You, little brother, are the opposite.”_

_“Is that an insult?”_

_“On the contrary, I am saying that you would make a good king.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Mordred. There is a tremble in his voice._

_Agravaine only shrugs._

_And thus the idea is planted in Mordred’s head._

When Arthur went off on his wild goose chase after Lancelot, he left Camelot in the hands of his beloved nephew. He had seen his opportunity, and he seized it with both hands. Mordred remembered what it felt like to sit in Arthur’s chair, the steady pressure of history beating down upon him. It felt good. And when the crown was on his head he finally felt at peace. Of course, Agravine never lived to see it. It was his own fault; he should not have been standing so near the door. 

To Mordred’s surprise, the people loved him as king. It had nothing to do with him personally, just that he was much more reluctant to start wars than Arthur. _For indeed_ , thought Mordred, _What is honour, glory? Nothing. What, then, is the use of war? All we need to do in life is live._ But all that had changed with Camlann. 

He shuddered at the memory. 

Over the centuries, Mordred found himself returning again and again to the cave within the hill where his old companions sat asleep in their chairs. Agravaine still had his place at the Round Table. Mordred had checked, and checked again, hoping to find otherwise. He would stare into his brother’s sharp blue eyes, his own face fixed in an expression of grim certainty. Of course Agravaine had been forgiven, by King Arthur or the Lady of the Lake or Heaven or whoever it was who decided these things (it did not matter, Mordred decided he despised them all). Agravaine, after all, had not lived to turn full traitor. 

His other brothers were there: Gawain, sitting beside the King — good-hearted but so incredibly stubborn. On his other side, was Gaheris, looking just as he was in life — always filled with fire and revenge and regret. Then, saintly Gareth, who came to Camelot to scrub kitchen floors and who maintained that uncomplaining attitude which Mordred found terribly frustrating. Fate had not been kind to any of them, he knew. He supposed he ought to be happy about that. They had all fallen under Lancelot’s blade (idiots, the lot of them — they should have stood further away). But he was too tired to feel any kind of vindication. There had been too many failures. That said, he had certainly succeeded in making Lancelot miserable. Arthur’s most glorious and second-most-treacherous knight was now living unhappily in Los Angeles, of all places. 

***

When Mordred opened the envelope and saw the eviction notice, he laughed bitterly. His flat was filled with boxes, which he had never quite finished unpacking since being kicked out of his last (slightly bigger) flat. Perhaps that is why the whole place seemed to acquire a box-like quality, the corners contracting, growing more and more cramped with every moment he spent in the dump. The single-glazed windows sent swathes of light illuminating the grey walls and the dust bunnies which clung to them. Wafting through a gap between the glass and the frame was the smell of fish and chips from the tourist trap next door. Mordred supposed he could have complained to the landlord about it, but he could never summon up the energy. Besides, it no longer mattered — he had not paid rent in months, and now, at last, he was being evicted.

Slumped in bed, he heaved himself into a seated position. He took out his phone, and his fingered hovered over his aunt’s contact. She was, presumably, his only living relative, and thus obligated to help. Nonetheless, something about dear Aunt Morgana made him uneasy. Perhaps it was her green eyes that cut like knives. Or the way her harsh gaze made him want to confess how much everything hurt. Perhaps it was the way she had helped Arthur, in the end. In spite of what anyone could have possibly predicted, there had been redemption for Morgana le Fey. 

_No_ , thought Mordred, _I’m done with family_. Besides, she’ll only laugh. With that, he shoved his phone into his pocket. He knew what he did next would have to be done in person. 

***

The automatic doors swished open as Mordred lugged his single suitcase across the carpet, up the stairs, and into Hotel Bertilak. 

The lobby was wide and spacious. A chandelier hung in the centre of the ceiling. Below were sofas and armchairs in which guests rested and chatted and flicked through gossip magazines. Stretching across the floor was a lime green carpet embellished with geometric patterns which made it look rather dizzying. 

The Bertilaks advertised their hotel as a ‘historical building revamped for the modern age’ but Mordred now saw that could be translated to ‘outmoded architecture decorated in bizarre shades of green’. The hotel was not exactly ugly, yet it exuded as a sense of _wrongness_. 

“Welcome to Hotel Bertilak,” said the receptionist, smiling cheerily at Mordred. 

Mordred’s assessing eye swept over all the people in the lobby. Ordinary people, he decided. No wonder they had not noticed how strange everything was. Then he peered at the receptionist. At first glance, she looked like an ordinary woman in her early twenties. But Mordred suspected she was much older than that. After all, her skin had a greenish tint.

“Are you human?” he asked falteringly.

The smile froze on the receptionist’s face. “Let me, um… speak to someone more senior.” She hurriedly picked up a telephone and began to murmur into it. 

Not a moment passed before Lord Bertilak strode into the lobby. “Well, well, well,” he said in his booming voice, “So you’re one of us then.”

“Yes,” replied Mordred. He needed no clarification. 

Lord Bertilak frowned, “Say, are you Gawain’s brother?”

“Yes,” said Mordred again, this time through gritted teeth. “I’m Mordred.”

“Ah yes,” said Lord Bertilak. “Gawain was such a wonderful guest. Wasn’t he, my love?”

“The very best,” came a sonorous voice. Lord Bertilak smiled as he watched his wife walk towards them, her high heels clattering against the marble floor. “Such a shame we never got to seduce him properly,” said Lady Bertilak, and she flashed a dazzling smile toward Mordred. 

“A crying shame...” Lord Bertilak nodded in agreement.

Mordred knew his face was turning red. He attempted to moderate his expression. “As I was saying —”

Lady Bertilak interrupted him. “Mordred, is it? I am dreadfully fond of you Orkney boys. I must ask, what do you think of our hotel? I’m very fond of the decor, myself.”

“It’s very… green,” said Mordred. 

“It’s an artistic choice," sniffed Lord Bertilak. "It’s very, as they say, _in vogue_.” 

Mordred scanned the wide room, taking in the bright wallpaper and the erratically arranged pot plants. His gaze rested on the receptionist. She fixed him with an angry glare. 

“Ah, I suppose she’s figured out who you are,” sighed Lord Bertilak. “You’re not very popular I’m afraid.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” snapped Mordred. Then he took a deep breath. _Act natural. Make small talk._ “What is she?” he asked.

“A dryad.”

“Really? I would have guessed goblin.”

The receptionist scowled. Lady Bertilak rolled her eyes. 

“So what brings you here, boy?” said Lord Bertilak quickly.

“Well, I’m here because I need somewhere to stay. Also, stop calling me ‘boy’”

Mordred stiffened as he heard Lord Bertilak’s sharp intake of breath. 

“I’m not sure if he can pay,” Lady Bertilak muttered. She frowned, and then added, “Also, he’s not as pretty as his brother.”

Mordred waited while the Bertilaks took in his scrappy hoodie and his jeans with those once-fashionable but now ever-widening rips in them — all clothes which had not been washed in weeks… or was it months? A smile began to play on Lord Bertilak’s lips. Mordred sighed. He had always considered the Bertilaks to be his last resort. He was remembering why. 

Lord Bertilak spoke slowly. His voice was as clear and resonant as the day he arrived in Arthur’s hall with his challenge of honour. “I see. You need my help.” 

“Yes.” Mordred looked at his feet. 

“If I may, how dire is your financial situation?”

“Very dire.”

Lord Bertilak raised a bushy eyebrow. “So, I’m guessing you want to stay at a significantly reduced price?”

Mordred twitched in annoyance. “Well, I’m actually broke at the moment. So I was hoping you’d let me stay for free. Just till I get back on my feet.”

“Free?” laughed Lady Bertilak. 

“I guess I forgot who I was speaking to. You like nothing better than to have people indebted to you.”

“Nothing in this world is ever free,” said Lord Bertilak. “That is life’s greatest tragedy and its deepest truth. You are blaming us for being truthful. Boy, do you want our help or not?”

“You need us,” said Lady Bertilak.

As Mordred’s gaze flickered between his two hosts, with their eyes so filled with certainty, he began to laugh.

“Actually,” he snapped, “I don’t need you at all. I don’t care if you’re pagan deities, or personifications of spring, or whatever all those medieval literature professors are calling you this time. You’re not special anymore, either of you. Thanks to this gift or curse or whatever, I’m immortal. Just. Like. You. In fact, I suspect I only eat and sleep out of habit. So it follows that if you leave me out on the street, I won’t die. Yes, it would be annoying. It would certainly be embarrassing. But it wouldn’t kill me. Oh, and it would be incredibly embarrassing for you — _all of you_!” 

He addressed these last words to the entirety of the lobby. A few guests looked at him in confusion. _Ordinary guests. Damn._ He straightened. _No matter_ , he thought, _I’ve gone too far and can’t stop now._ “We are the remnants of noble Camelot,” he declared, throwing his arms up in the air. “Imagine if a knight of the Round Table were to wander the streets begging for spare change. Will you pity me? Or will you shove me away because I’m a traitor and that’s all I deserve!”

He was running out of breath. But he had to get the words out. He closed his eyes. “You could do all those things to me. I don’t care. It won’t kill me. Nothing can kill me.” _Because, believe me, I’ve already tried everything._

He opened his eyes, and sighed a deep sigh. The other guests hastily looked away. Lord Bertilak studied him appraisingly. Next to him, Lady Bertilak began to smile. She glided over to the counter and began to speak to the receptionist in a low voice. 

“Mordred,” said Lord Bertilak. “Welcome to Hotel Bertilak.” He held out his. Hesitantly, Mordred shook it. Lord Bertilak’s eyes were so green they were almost glowing. 

Lady Bertilak returned to them. She turned over Mordred’s hand to place a key card in his palm. White plastic. With a green knight printed on it. 

“What will this cost me?” asked Mordred softly. 

“Never you mind, dear boy,” said Lady Bertilak. Her husband stood beside her, their shoulders touching. Outside, it was afternoon: cars started and stopped, Mordred could hear the sounds of a distant traffic jam. Yet, as the Bertilaks stood, waiting, their faces became something ancient, something mystical, like the knotted branches of trees in the heart of the forest. 

And Mordred, cursing the Bertilaks and Morgana and Arthur and everyone else but most of all himself, nodded.

“Fine,” he said. The word tasted dull on his tongue. 

“We have a bargain,” said Lord Bertilak. 

"Yes," said Mordred, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. "We have a bargain."


	3. This is Why All Doors Should Have Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lynette and Lyonesse contemplate something scandalous. Guinevere receives an unwelcome visitor.

The door swung open, and Guinevere strode into the bookshop. 

“Morning, Lyonesse. Morning, Lynette,” she called out to the shop's two employees — the former sitting primly behind the counter and the latter perched awkwardly on the counter. 

She took a second to wonder how she had ever come to work at a bookshop. Well, specifically, she owned the bookshop. She had bought it almost ten years ago and since then it had become a place of refuge from the relentlessness of the 21st century. Lynette and Lyonesse were more than happy to work for her as her only employees. Apparently, it beat working for an ordinary employer and having to explain why they occasionally used words like “alas” and “smote” and “damosel”. 

“Morning, Guinevere,” the sisters’ voices rang out in unison. 

Due to a combination of flimsy business sense, lacklustre marketing, and, as Lynette put it “everyone becoming illiterate again”, _Once and Future Books_ did not attract a lot of customers. This was fortunate because it allowed the three of them to remain incognito. It was also unfortunate because, well, they earned practically no money. 

“Lynette,” said Guinevere. “You know you don’t have to be in until the afternoon.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I’m here to keep Lyonesse company,” replied Lynette. She showed her phone to Lyonesse, who chuckled.

Guinevere groaned inwardly. The two sisters tended to distract one other. They had managed to adjust to the modern age better even than Morgana or Ragnelle, and thus much better than Guinevere herself. As it happened, they had recently discovered Instagram. Guinevere only hoped they would not take "creative" selfies in front of customers. 

“Guinevere,” said Lynette. “We want to ask your opinion on something.” 

Guinevere began casually rearranging the poetry shelf. “What about?” 

“Marriage.”

“Ah. In that case there is no one on this planet less qualified than I am to offer an opinion on that.”

“Well, the whole Lancelot-Arthur disaster wasn’t completely your fault,” said Lynette, presumably trying to be reassuring. Her eyes widened as she realised her mistake. “I mean — it wasn’t your fault at all.”

Lyonesse nodded. “It was fate. Merlin foretold everything. So he knew. You didn’t.”

“Anyway,” said Lynette, glancing at her sister. “We wanted to, um, bounce something off you.”

“What kind of something?” Guinevere felt her skepticism growing with every word spoken. 

“Yes,” Lynette continued. “We were thinking, would it be totally crazy, to um... swap?”

“Swap?”

“Yeah. Me and Lyonesse… you know...”

“Yeah,” echoed Lyonesse, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “When they wake up.”

Guinevere’s eyes widened in shock as realisation dawned. Shock. Yes. Of course she was shocked. Yet somehow not surprised. Yet somehow not surprised. Lynette had first arrived at Arthur’s court to rescue Lyonesse from the Red Knight. Naturally, she wanted a knight to help her. Gareth, disguised as a kitchen boy, leapt at the opportunity to prove himself. And Lynette, offended by having to travel with a kitchen boy, leapt at the opportunity to try out all the verbal barbs she had been saving over the years. The two proceeded to bicker all the way to the Red Lands. The partnership was a success as they managed to free Lyonesse, who had actually not been in any danger. The Red Knight was not a violent man but he _was_ an incredibly dull conversationalist. Lyonesse was grateful to be rescued, so she married Gareth. Lynette, somewhat in retaliation, married his brother, Gaheris. And thus, the four individuals involved managed to reach a situation that made each and every one of them miserable. But now Lynette and Lyonesse were suggesting…

“Swapping husbands! You want to… swap your husbands!” gasped Guinevere.

“Think about it,” said Lynette, standing up. “It’s what we all wanted, though we couldn’t do anything about it because of… well…” she trailed off. 

“Chivalry, and codes of honour and all that stuff,” finished Lyonesse, stifling a yawn.

“Exactly! But now it’s the 21st century. None of that matters anymore.”

“It’ll be a fresh start.”

“And what’s the point of a fresh start, if we just repeat the same mistakes?”

Lynette’s eyes were wide, Lyonesse’s were wistful, and Guinevere’s were fixed to the ground. Now, she was vaguely aware of Lyonesse straightening and frowning, Lynette’s face fixing itself into a scowl. But Guinevere was already lost in memories, thinking of those lost days where duty and happiness warred within her, those were days long past and yet — 

“You know you’re all just dreaming,” came a voice from behind. 

Guinevere did not need to turn around. “Hello Mordred,” she said through gritted teeth. 

Her shoulder blades itched. _Typical Mordred. He had always been far too quiet, so quiet you never spotted him until it was too late._ She shuddered involuntarily. 

“Good-day to you all, ladies,” said Mordred. Guinevere could hear the smirk in his voice. 

_I really should get a bell installed_ , she thought. She turned to face him. “Why are you here?” 

“Yeah. What do you want, Mordred?” asked Lynette, who had now slipped into full combat mode. 

“If you’re not going to buy anything,” Lyonesse added. “Do feel free to leave so you don’t waste our time and yours.” 

Mordred laughed. “Please. I was innocently passing by when I heard your conversation — “

“Impossible,” Lynette interrupted sharply. “The glass is too thick.” She folded her arms. 

Mordred held up a hand. “I heard your conversation and I am here to disavow you of certain fanciful notions.”

Lyonesse scoffed loudly and Lynette’s expression was one of undisguised loathing. Guinevere wondered what her own face revealed. 

Regardless, Mordred took no notice of his audience’s reaction and continued. “Doubtless, my dear brothers would be thrilled with this new arrangement,” he spoke the word like a magician showing his palms to show there was nothing in them, “But all this is contingent on them waking up.”

Lynette opened her mouth. Mordred let out a theatrical sigh.

“Of course they’ll wake up, you say. They’ll come at Britain’s hour of greatest need! It’s destiny!” 

He paused dramatically. 

“And?” said Guinevere, tempted to tap her foot in impatience. “What stunning revelation do you have in store for us?

Mordred laughed. “What I’m going to say is this —” another dramatic pause. “It’s all bullshit.”

Lyonesse groaned. “As I said before, buy something or leave.”

“He can’t,” said Lynette with a smile. “He’s broke. I know that because Enid told me that Isolde told her that she saw you going into Hotel Bertilak and you would only do that if you’re really desperate.”

Guinevere arched an eyebrow. Lynette’s extensive spy network was something that never failed to impress her. 

“Fine. Fine,” said Mordred, glowering. He sauntered over to the discount shelf and began running a hand along the spines of the books, his fingers tapping out a rhythm. When he looked up again, he was smiling. 

Guinevere marvelled at how quickly his emotions shifted. _Who is the real Mordred?_ And she realised that, even after all this time, she had no idea. 

“I’ll take this one,” Mordred plucked a book off the shelf. 

“Did you just choose that at random?” asked Lyonesse. 

“There is no chance. There is only fate,” Mordred replied in mock seriousness. 

Lynette rolled her eyes. “Mordred, that’s _Silas Marner_ ,” she said. “You’ll hate it. It’s all about people being nice to each other.”

“Alright then… I’ll take this one,” he pulled out another random book. 

“That’s _Fifty Shades of Grey_ ,” said Lynette without missing a beat. “Go on. Buy it. Read it in public.”

Mordred’s glower returned. “You can mock me all you want but you know I’m right. Think of it this way: what good could a bunch of crusty old knights do in this modern age? They can’t even operate a toaster! I can think of no apocalypse-type-situation in which they would be useful. Can you? Therefore, the only plausible conclusion we can draw is that they will never wake up.”

There was a long silence. Lynette was quivering with anger. Lyonesse reached for her sister’s hand, and held it. Truthfully, Guinevere had often considered that possibility that the day they awaited would never come. But still — Gareth was dead and Gaheris was dead and so were so many others. They all deserved a second chance. 

Lyonesse was the first to speak. “We just want to be happy, Mordred. Why can’t you let us have this?”

Mordred only shrugged. “None of us ever got what we wanted in life. That’s the nature of life.”

And with that he spun on his heels and walked away. The door closed behind him with a clatter. 

It was only after he had disappeared from view that Guinevere realised there was a book missing from the shelf. 

“So I guess he’s a shoplifter now. At least it’s new.” Things so rarely changed in this endless, uncertain wait. Then she sighed, “I wonder what he took.”


	4. The Forest Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mordred comes into contact with the world of magic and returns knowing less than he did before.

On his way back to his room, the knight formerly known as Sir Mordred decided to take a detour. 

It was still early in the day, and the absence of tourists and holidaymakers cloaked the lobby of Hotel Bertilak in a dull hush. Mordred strode across the marble floor trying to look as if he hadn’t a care in the world. It appeared to work. The receptionist barely looked up from her phone. 

Although he was pleased with the morning’s conversation — three versus one and he had come out on top — this wasn’t enough to shake the feeling of unease that sat like a stone at the bottom of his belly. He held the book close to his chest, his finger blindly tracing the letters of the title as he walked. 

Hotel Bertilak was a tricky place. According to the directory that was posted beside the lifts, the hotel had a breakfast room on the ground floor, a meeting room on the lower ground floor and five floors of guest rooms. That was all.

“I know that’s a lie,” Mordred muttered as he turned away from the lifts and headed for the stairwell. In the few days he had stayed there, he learned that the hotel was much bigger than it seemed. There were staircases that led to nowhere, doors in the walls that the ordinary guests never appeared to notice, and strange music that sometimes played at midnight and seemed to emanate from all around. Also, there was definitely a pool. 

The stairwell was dimly lit. The paint on the walls was beginning to peel, and there were cracks… _There are always cracks_ , thought Mordred, _You can’t fool me, O Lord and Lady Bertilak. What game are you playing? But why…_

He shook his head. 

Not quite sure what he was doing, he began to climb. His footfalls echoed. Each sound, each slap of the sole of his shoe against the stone floor, rebounded against the plastered walls, and returned hollow. 

He counted each flight of stairs that he climbed. _One… two… three… four… five._ Before long, he reached the fifth floor. 

Then he knelt. To an ordinary observer, it might look as if he was stopping to tie his shoes. But to someone who knew the story, it would be something else entirely. 

_Why am I doing this?_

Once, the Green Knight knelt down in King Arthur’s hall with a smile on his lips and challenge on his tongue. 

So when Sir Gawain knelt down before the Green Knight, he did it with a green girdle around his waist, and shame in his heart. 

_Why am I doing this? Because I must._

Kneeling was sacred. It was the act of drawing your body into itself and showing all your broken parts, exposed, open to the air. 

So Sir Mordred knelt then, in that dank stairwell with the peeling paint and the electric lights flickering above him. He closed his eyes for a moment. And looked up. 

There were trees all around him. 

He stood now, the heels of his cheap sneakers pressing down against the loamy soil. Hanging leaves skimmed across his hair like fingertips. 

Mordred took a step. A twig snapped under his foot and he lept back. Branches raked lines across his skin. 

“Very funny, Bertilak,” said Mordred flatly. 

Lord Bertilak — no, the Green Knight — emerged out of the darkness. His skin was a deep emerald hue like a canopy of leaves with the sunlight streaming through. 

“I was not expecting to see you so soon,” he said, smiling. 

Mordred tried his best to appear flippant. “I got bored of staving off the inevitable. I want to know the price.”

He cursed inwardly as he saw the Green Knight’s smile remain unchanged.

“And a good-day to you too,” came the offhand reply. 

“Where precisely are we?” asked Mordred. 

“We are where we always are. People are always talking about magical lands, other dimensions, places you might reach by falling down a hole or through a mirror or down the deepest well. In actuality, there is no such thing. There is no such place. Magic is everywhere. All you have to do is walk for long enough and you will always find it. You will find it where you began.”

“This had better not be some kind of weird seduction ritual. Because if it is, I’ll pack up and leave right now,” Mordred folded his arms. “I’m not as gullible as my brother.”

“Well,” said the Green Knight, hints of his normal voice returning. “Not unless you want to...” 

“No. Absolutely not. You look like a walking topiary bush.”

The Green Knight raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

The Green Knight shrugged, and suddenly he looked a lot less intimidating. “Fair enough. Well then, I swear to honour your vow of chastity —”

“I don’t have a…” Mordred began, but then he only sighed. “Oh, never mind.”

“And as for your part of the bargain. I ask for an oath, which you shall swear to me, that you must swear to keep for as long as you reside under my roof — ”

“What is it?”

“Let me finish.”

“I was going to but you keep —”

“ _Let me finish._ ”

Mordred tried to scowl but he suspected it came out as more of a grimace. 

“Oh you knights, even with the burden of immortality on your shoulders you still find ways to be impatient.” The Green Knight chuckled. “For you see, the bargain is this: to hold fast to the mercy and truth, to find honour in this world that has none.”

Mordred blinked. _That’s all? Far, far too easy._ “Alright, I swear,” he said quickly. “But you’re wasting your time. I think you’ll find that I’m not very honourable.” 

The Green Knight smiled. It was a warm smile, if not a particularly pleasant one. “Trust me, boy, I am being merciful. I could have asked for a pound of flesh, or your immortal soul — the possibilities are endless. But instead, I asked only for your honour. Just glad that I am not feeling creative today.”

“So this is it? We’re even?”

“Soon, my good knight,” and the Green Knight let out a throaty laugh. “You can start by returning what you stole from your Queen.”

Mordred wasn’t sure what to say in response. Was he supposed to laugh? Or perhaps he should take his head in his hands for the shame of it all. It seemed such a trivial thing. So all he did was nod. And he knelt again, his eyes squeezed shut against that impossible forest. When he looked up, he was standing in the empty stairwell. Above him, one of the lightbulbs flickered. And went out. It made a popping noise as it did so. Now Mordred had to laugh. 

***

When he got back to his room, the first thing he did was take out the book. He sat down on the bed and stared at it. _Le Morte D’Arthur_ by Thomas Malory. Such a grim title. 

He flipped to the index, numb, as he saw the long list of names. He ran his finger over them: Arthur — asleep or dead, Merlin — as good as dead, Morgause — gone for good. 

And here he was alive and kicking. 

He had never read the book, not cover to cover. Last time he saw her, Morgana had complained at length about the things that Malory got wrong. 

“Well yes,” she said to him. “I did plot to assassinate Arthur. Multiple times. It’s not my fault he had no sense of humour.”

“So it was all an elaborate joke?” he had asked.

“Not quite. More like a test. Practice, if you will. For the real thing.”

_The real thing, the real threat, the real betrayal…_

“You mean me,” said Mordred, heart thudding. 

“Yes,” she had said, and her expression was dark. “But not in the way that you think.”

Mordred forced his thoughts back to the present moment. With a sigh, he closed the book. The past was always beckoning to him, like a drug. He peered at the cover. It was a knight — slim, curly haired, head bowed slightly as if in shame. Who was he supposed to be then? Lancelot? Gawain? No, it had to be Galahad, who had gone on the quest of the Holy Grail and had never returned. That simpleton Bors later swore that he saw Galahad ascend to heaven, borne upon the wings of angels. Utter bullshit, Mordred used to think. But then again, maybe it was true. After all, Galahad wasn’t here. Galahad had been spared. 

“Well then,” said Mordred to the book. “It’s just you and me, Galahad. You were always good at this kind of thing — tests of honour and such… So I’m just asking what you think I should do next, Galahad? What should I do?”

Now he knew he had truly gone crazy. Absently, he began to drum his fingers against the cover. His fingertips beat against Galahad’s perfect face. 

“Well? I’m waiting for my answer.”

Galahad, of course, said nothing. 

Defeated, Mordred let out a deep sigh.


End file.
